(Un)Natural
by evershiftingmosaicIV
Summary: Chapter 3 is now up! This is an exploration of what could have happened had Karen walked into Martha's room a few minutes earlier and saved her from suicide. The story begins after Martha's confession of love and covers how the two women would deal with the aftermath of scandal, both immediately and further down the road. Rated M for mature themes and eventually explicit material.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters are my friends; borrowed, but not for me to keep.

I hope you enjoy! I'll try to update every week (perhaps more often) but life, that pesky nuisance, has an unhealthy knack of getting in the way. In the meantime, please leave me reviews if you're enjoying my story! Your criticism, positive or otherwise, will be much appreciated.

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_"Listen to me! I have loved you the way they said!"_

The words echoed in Karen's mind, a hard, resonating truth that had fallen, point-blank, on the sitting room floor and was now her burden to carry. The words, so harmless by themselves, had formed together as Martha spoke and had fallen in neat, heated jabs that stung her insides. _"I have loved you the way they said!_" Nothing could have prepared her. All of the years of friendship and memories and late nights of work and penny-pinching while they had put their school together, and she had never had an inkling of what Martha had sprung on her only minutes prior. The recipient of thousands of confidences, the innermost, most intimate one had remained unknown to her, locked away for years. Karen had no idea how long Martha had bided in pain. This part of her had opened up a cavern inside of Karen, cold, dark, and imposing; how could she not have known? How could she not have _seen?_

Karen mused in muted despair as she stood at the entrance to the school. She watched Amelia Tilford's stooped back hobble to the car, her driver waiting to close the door after his mistress. Karen found herself unable to look away from the starched, pressed cuffs at his tanned wrists, marveling that anything could still fall in neat, clean lines. Mrs. Tilford's eyes met Karen's for the briefest moment of time before Karen looked away; she did not want to witness the sorrow of the older woman. It was not an emotion she was in the least prepared (or willing) to see from the woman who had so foolishly believed in the words of a spiteful child, words that had ignited into a fury that had rent their lives apart so irrevocably. Words that, up until ten minutes prior, she had conceived as being so far separated from reality they could've belonged to a fairytale. But the distinction between fairytale and reality had dissolved with Martha's confession of love. For her.

She turned back into the house. Despite herself – and despising herself for it – she could not help but feel the repulsion that the townspeople must have felt toward the both of them. The repulsion of being faced with something alien, something so rarely seen or heard of in a quiet town; something that could've been so ordinary were it not for its foreign nature. Karen felt battered by a curious combination of emotions; she was uncomfortable, she was unsettled, it felt as if the world had turned upside down and she struggled to remember her surroundings, and who she was. She felt hot and damp; she was drifting in a haze and everything had a surreal quality to it, as if she had walked into a dream. Or a nightmare.

But her uneasiness did nothing to mitigate the growing concern and warmth she felt toward Martha. Martha's disgust for herself had nestled into her breast in a tight pain that hurt with every breath. No matter what, no matter the complications that must arise from such circumstances, Karen had to be – no, _needed _to be there for Martha. She needed to comfort her and love her as she had for all these years, and, most importantly, make it clear that Martha's budding preference would do nothing to hamper Karen's affection for her. She wanted her there, by her side, for now and forever, as her best friend.

An occupation that, she dearly hoped, would be enough for Martha.

Karen steeled herself for a few moments, listening while Mrs. Tilford's car started up, the rumbling of its engine fading as it left the school grounds and headed back into town. She then turned and slowly began ascending the staircase, taking each step slowly and deliberately. At the door to Martha's room, she hesitated; unbidden from the back of Karen's mind came Mary Tilford's words, of how Karen and Martha had touched and kissed each other. Martha's confession had thrown these words into a new light and Karen shook her head at the uneasy pit that'd settled into her stomach. Martha had never crossed the bounds of propriety and she would never dare presume to; she had had the opportunities and let them all fall, unacknowledged and unheeded. The least Karen could do was spare Martha her own misinformed judgments. She drew a breath to steady herself, leaning lightly against the door for a moment before gently turning the knob.

Martha's back was turned toward her as she entered, but she looked back as she heard Karen's light footstep on the threshold. Karen met Martha's blank gaze steadily; her eyes were still swollen from crying but beyond that, there was nothing. Karen hesitated for a second, wishing to speak with care; there were right words and wrong words and above anything else right now, she wanted to use the right ones. Martha turned away as she spoke, though Karen took care never to let her gaze leave the back of Martha's head.

"Martha, I'm going away someplace to begin again." She waited, but Martha said nothing. "Will you come with me?"

Martha's voice, when she did speak, was colorless and lacking. "Thank you Karen." She made a mighty show of smiling blandly at her, before turning away again and nestling deeper into her armchair, drawing a blanket up to her chin "Let's talk about it tomorrow. I want to go to sleep."

Karen stared at her. In the sitting room below, Martha had been all movement. It was as if she'd been holding herself in all of this time, through the accusations and the trial and aftermath; her confession had unleashed all that was pent up, the oscillation of her body an echo of the inside workings that had poured through the worn out seams of herself. Now, only minutes after, she was still as a stone. She had smiled blandly, she had gazed blankly; the scandal could never have happened, the confession might never have been made had Karen not read the hollowness of her movements, had she not seen the effort of Martha straining to sit still.

There would need to be another talk; there would need to be several. The aftermath of Martha's confession, and their sudden release from perdition, would need to be dealt with; adjustments would need to be made, and changes would have to be facilitated. But they had been through, Lord knows they had been through enough for that day. She wouldn't push it, she would let Martha be; she said nothing more as she closed the door gently behind her and headed back downstairs.

Despite the trauma of the day, Karen's heart felt, if not lightened, perhaps less burdensome. The nightmare of a hundred days and nights was finally lifted; the record would be set right, and although they would never be able to find work in this town again, the doors to the world beyond were not closed. She would do some research that night and find a suitable place for them, a fresh, unsullied place to begin again. Now, however, she felt a need, more than anything, to escape the stale air of the farmhouse and feel the breeze on her face again. There were pressing matters to be attended to, but they would have to wait.

Karen put on her coat and stepped outside; the foreign, but not forgotten feel of the sun warming her skin was like a balm to her frayed nerves. She took a deep breath at the threshold before stepping out, as if by this very act she could baptize her insides and exhale the problems that had plagued her for so long. Her mind was surprisingly undisturbed as she headed down the path, away from the house and toward the arch that lay at the entrance to the school.

It was autumn now. They had gone into hibernation during the spring and missed most of its swollen, budding glory; the slight greenness of the grass and toward the bottom of the flower buds was the only testament to what had been thriving life before it. Now, the leaves crunched underfoot; the air held a crispness that couldn't be found at any other time of year. Birds swooped from the trees, grazing the remnants of pulp and bud with the tips of their wings as they dove downward and back up again; a squirrel and his mate burrowed in the yard, plump with the expectation of the coming winter; the wind stirred the tree branches, lifted the debris of spring and set it swirling away to the south. The sky seemed almost swollen with the buttery warmth of sunshine; the clouds, plump and white, seemed to encourage the gentle warmth that hung in the air and clung to the trees. Everything seemed to thrum with life; everywhere was movement but calm, as if actively working to create this placid idyll. The wind swept first this way and then that, as if desperate to share the fruits of nature's labor from all directions.

This scene, almost heartbreakingly beautiful in its peaceful candor, should have been enough to carry away even the deepest of worries. But Karen was not at ease. A nagging pain tugged at the deepest part of her; the icy fingers of apprehension crept up her spine. She tried to ignore it, but her sense of trepidation increased with every step she took. She was halfway to the arch and Karen knew, invariably, that something was wrong.

She stopped on the path and listened. Nothing seemed changed; the wind rustled the trees, there was the rumble of a distant engine on a road beyond the hedge; the squirrel and his mate had disappeared up into a tree; the house lay silent and undisturbed, with no sound to indicate that anything was amiss inside. It was this, the farmhouse's placid calmness that frightened her most of all. Karen was reminded of Martha, who a few minutes prior had sat still as a stone, whose gaze had been so empty, so devoid of any movement. The calmness of the facade had hid the chaos beyond. But Karen knew nothing could stay still for long; the strain would show at the seams, then movement would burst forth like a breached dam.

Something was going to happen. She did not know the nature of the something, but that did not stop her heart from thumping against her ribcage in painful jabs; this did not stop the dampness that spread over her skin and covered her with a tangible layer of fear; this did not stop her breath from coming out in terrified gasps as she hiked up her skirt and ran as fast as humanly possible back to the farmhouse, whose undisturbed nature instilled in her every moment a new level of rising panic at what chaos she would find within.

Karen burst through the front door and to the landing, up the steps to where Lily Mortar was attempting to coax a locked door to open. She ran desperately to the trophy room across the hall; every moment that passed was a moment too long and she grabbed the first she could find and threw herself back toward Martha's locked door. "She won't let me i-" Mortar vexed dramatically before Karen, none too graceful, pushed her out of the way and began desperately to heave the heavy metal against the door. "Martha! Martha!," she could not stop her desperation and fear from spilling out into cries that raised with pitch and fever at every repetition, "Martha, please! Martha!" She was half-sobbing; adrenaline pumped itself out of her pores and covered her damp body in a poison of terror as the lock began to give way. "Martha!" She heaved herself with everything in her, felt the lock begin to buckle and finally give as she tumbled headfirst into Martha's room.

Martha was standing on a chair, a noose around her fair neck. The moment suspended itself, time froze as their eyes met; it was a moment that carried with it all of the pain and suspension of a nightmare but this was not a nightmare, because this was real and Karen had locked eyes with her best friend who, at any second, would take the leap that would end her life. The moment suspended itself and Martha, stopped for a second by the unmanned arrival of her friend, pushed aside her surprise. Her eyes flitted away from Karen's and fixed on a spot not in this world, but in the next.

She twisted, she turned, and suddenly, she dropped.

The snap of the rope awakened Karen. She leapt up, bile in her throat, and hurled herself to the supply closet. Her hands slipped and she felt the sting of a blade as she made contact with the knife hanging on the wall and she grabbed it, desperately ignoring the pain as she bound up the steps to the doorway where Martha lay framed, spasming, a movement Karen knew with a fever pitch of fear that would end soon, and Martha with it. She threw herself across the threshold, up onto the trunk at the foot Martha's bed and then the bed itself.

She swung out wildly. She felt the fibers snap as she made contact one, two, three times, and the weight of the rope's burden fell.

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A/N: My use of the phrase "budding preference" is from a documentary called "The Celluloid Closet" in which Shirley MacLaine, who played Martha in the 1961 film version of "The Children's Hour," discusses her experience with the character and on the set of the film. It is a wonderful documentary and I encourage anybody with an interest in how homosexuality has been portrayed through film to check it out for themselves!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters are my friends; borrowed, but not for me to keep.

A/N: Please read and enjoy! If you have anything you'd like to share with me, please leave a review; anything at all will be helpful!

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"Martha?! Martha?! Oh God, oh please…"

Martha couldn't breathe. In a far-off haze, she felt the rope around her neck as it bound her to the moment, as if life had already left her body but the noose kept her, cruelly and ironically, tied to the present. She could do nothing but register the far-off voice speaking to her and the vague pain in her neck and along her right thigh where she had dropped so suddenly until she felt hands, hot and shaking, lift her up. A moment later she felt something cold against her neck; the fibers of the rope snapped but the first breath refused to come. Then someone delivered a sharp slap to her left cheek and feeling came flooding back; she took in a breath that exploded in her dry throat as it shoved life back into her body, burning and stinging its way into her lungs.

"Oh, thank God. Martha, dear, please, open your eyes, look at me, look at me…"

That voice. That voice as warm as honey and still recognizable despite its panicked manner reached inside her; she felt the warmth that started in her belly and spread, and she felt the ensuing shame and despair that started between her legs and traveled, irrevocably, to her heart where it squeezed, painful and unforgiving.

Another sharp slap landed on her cheek. "For God's sake Martha, look at me!"

Martha didn't want to open her eyes. To open her eyes would confirm that it hadn't worked; that her freedom from shame and Karen's freedom from being tied to such a woman was now locked beyond where either of them could reach. She squeezed her eyelids shut, childishly; she would burrow in the darkness and find the place she'd been pulled to as the noose had done its work, the place she'd been cruelly torn from when Karen had slapped the life back into her. A different voice reached her ears as she continued to fight downward, trying to turn away from the nightmarish purgatory she'd been party to for too long.

"Martha! Oh Good heavens child, what have you done?!" So Aunt Lily had finally drawn herself together enough to make her dramatic entrance. Despite the pain and disgrace that raged like an inferno within her, she found the room to be annoyed. It was marvelous, really; she'd descended into the very pit of hell and Aunt Lily still had the power to recall such unparalleled and unmitigated exasperation in her.

"Miss Mortar, please…" Karen's voice was choked with fear and exhaustion.

"A sin! An unholy sin against God, you headstrong, foolish girl!"

"Miss Mortar, I'm warning you." Karen continued to shake her. Martha felt her hand against her face, her arm supporting Martha's upper back; pain and pleasure, desire and shame, love and hate fused so closely together that Martha found it hard to breathe. The warmth between her legs and the raw, painful twisting of her heart. Good God, would this torture ever cease? Would it never end?

"Such hate! Such flagrant disrespect of His word, Martha!" She heard footsteps come closer and Karen's ensuing, vehement refusal; the disappearance of Karen's hand from her face and Aunt Lily's responding bark of indignation indicated Karen had gone as far as to physically shield Martha from her Aunt's advance. She felt sickened as her aunt's gardenia perfume, sharp and pungent and obtrusive, came over her in an almost tangible wave. "Karen, you will not keep me from my niece. No matter the qualms she has with me, she is my flesh and blood and will always remain so. This unholy rite she has brought down on herself affects me as well as her, and she needs to-"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mortar!" Martha flinched as Karen unleashed a furious bellow. She could feel her friend shake with the years of shared pent-up fury. Karen shifted; Martha felt herself placed back on the floor and Karen's footsteps walk away, then back again. Her head was lifted up as Karen pushed a pillow underneath her before standing up again and rounding, like a wolf on the scent, on Lily Mortar. She had always able to summon more patience when dealing with Martha's aunt than Martha could, but it seemed that surplus, for however long it had lasted, was now well on its way out.

"You, ma'am, have never been Martha's family. Not in the least sense of the word. You have never been there for her, unless it was to snap up money or slap down a judgment on one of the most caring, generous, and beautiful souls that exist!" Martha couldn't help it; she opened her eyes at last, watching, incredulously, as Karen advanced on a rapidly retreating Mortar, a shaking fist supporting a pointing finger that bore the weight of years of judgment as it aimed itself at her aunt. "_I _have been there for her. _I_ have loved her. _I _have kept the clothes on your back and the food in your mouth and the roof over your head because _I_ have convinced her repeatedly to allow you to stay when she had every reason and every justification to turn her back on you. I'm now quite sorry for ever having put forth the effort, but I think you'll find that I will _never_ speak for you again. Martha and I will be leaving and you, madam, will travel the road away from town well before we do. You are never to call, you are never to write. There is a train leaving at 9 tonight and by God, a bigger sigh of relief will never be released from our mouths for as long as we live when that train carries you away with it! Go to your room, Mrs. Mortar. Remove everything from it that you hold dear and learn to bide by yourself, for you will never find a companion among us again." And apparently it was not enough for Lily Mortar to walk out herself; the genteel, sweet, elegant Karen Wright, lost her reserve on the hardwood floor and grabbed Martha's aunt by her upper arms and drove her at an unforgiving pace toward the door; Mortar had no sooner crossed the threshold before Karen slammed the door with an unforgiving _bang_ behind her.

Neither of them spoke. Karen, breathing heavily, dropped her head in her hands, her back stooped and shaking in the aftermath of her anger. Martha found herself unable to look away; that curious yearning, the sick swoop of her heart whenever Karen touched her, or looked at her, or whenever Karen was upset, or suffering, or happy, took its place again in the pit of her stomach, thriving and breeding in the aftermath of Karen's act of unwavering love. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, love and shame so closely bound together it was impossible for her to tell them apart anymore. She was wretched, she was sick, she was dirty, and Karen had still made the leap, had cut her free and had willingly, knowingly, barred them from the act that would've given them both their freedom. Karen had expelled Martha's parasitic aunt in an act of love, pure and untainted by sick desire, and Martha still found herself invariably unable to resist giving into the unnatural feelings she had harbored since the day she first set eyes on Karen Wright. What would it take to rid herself of this unlawful yearning? She had set her neck in a noose, she had looked death himself in the eye, she had risked everything to free them, and still these sick feelings lingered. What would it take?

Before she could help it, Martha let out a sob, small and plaintive. Karen, still at the door, turned to look at her, face flushed and eyes red. "Oh, darling," she whispered. Karen knelt down beside her, brushing Martha's hair away from her damp face. Martha tried to swallow the hitch in her breath as Karen touched her, but succeeded only in making it sound like a sob more than an indication of desire. Karen wasn't fooled; she drew back ever so slightly, peering at Martha for what seemed like an eternity with those beautiful doe eyes made red with worry. Finally, Karen heaved a sigh and looked away, sitting down next to her and leaning against the trunk at the end of Martha's bed.

"Darling," she said quietly. Martha watched as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back heavily, as if it were pulled down by the weight of a thousand worries. Martha tried to cut herself off from her body as she felt the reassuring warmth of Karen's arm against hers and the ensuing warmth that started in her heart and found its way between her legs and left her dazed and weak. She closed her eyes against it, but the heat remained.

"Why would you do something like this?" Karen's voice was tight. The smallest tremor passed through her. "Can you imagine how I would feel right now if I hadn't arrived in time? Could you imagine the depths of my pain if you were no longer with me? After all that we have been through, after all we have overcome together…" Her voice wavered; she choked, then she stopped completely; she buried her face in her hands and said no more.

Martha felt a twinge of guilt, sharp and hot and brutal; she _could_ imagine. She could imagine what it would have been like had it been Karen in the noose and Martha at the door. She could imagine all too clearly the agony that would sew itself, hard and unforgiving, into the raw and most intimate part of herself if Karen Wright had taken herself out of this world. She would never understand why she had done it, just as Karen, sitting next to her now, could not bridge the same gap. The choice, in this light, seemed careless and selfish. Martha knew that no matter what she said, it wouldn't be enough to undo the hurt; it would not save Karen the agonizing experience of having come so painfully, so cruelly close to losing that one person in the world she could not afford to lose.

Martha could imagine it all. But Karen's freedom had meant so much more to her. And now Karen would never know that this precious jewel Martha had tried to give to her, the freedom to live life, unsullied and free, was a prize worth being bought with pain.

Martha tried to sit up. The pain in her thigh and back made it hard to move; the rasp of the noose had left such an indelible impression on her throat that she was still struggling to breathe. Karen, noticing her friend's distress, resurfaced from the refuge of her hands and moved to help her; she placed a hand under her upper back and gently pushed, using the other to grasp her arm. Together they succeeded in getting Martha into a sitting position, where Karen placed the pillow against the small of her back as Martha leaned against the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Martha knew she was waiting. For an explanation, for an apology, for anything to be said that might begin to make sense of the tangled weave that had been woven around their lives, with Martha and Karen trapped in the crosshairs. Straining at the seams with the thousands of things she could say, or wanted to say, or needed to say, Martha found herself unable to speak any of them. She could deny Karen nothing normally, and for herself she could, she _had_ denied everything. But this world on the other side of the noose was changed, and nothing would ever be the same.

Martha could feel the onset of panic, of delayed reaction to trauma begin to push itself out into her body. Her adrenaline spiked. She felt hot and damp, as if she had had a fever that was just now choosing to break. She felt the familiar burn of tears as they set themselves in the corners of her eyes, felt familiar ball of emotion push painfully against the bruising on her throat.

"Karen, would you please get me a glass of water?" Her voice was raspy and ragged, almost alien. It both did and didn't belong to her. Martha felt the squeeze of Karen's hand on hers, the ensuing tug at her heart.

"Two seconds, darling."

Karen got up and walked over to the bureau. She took up the silver jug and filled the glass beside it, bringing it back to Martha at the foot of the bed. Her hands shook as Martha took the glass from her, a twitch that did not go unnoticed by either party.

"Thank you."

Martha took two painful sips as Karen repositioned herself beside her. Neither of them said anything for a while. The place for words seemed to have disappeared, fallen between the cracks of the hardwood floor where neither of them could summon the strength to recall it. Martha could feel the mounting tension, the building momentum behind Karen's eyes, the need for anything to be said or done, anything at all. Martha felt the pulse of every heart beat in her cheek as she prepared to speak, the swollen skin there both a marker of love and of pain, a testament of affection and the great lengths to which it was willing to go in order to resurrect that which was already beyond repair. She cleared her throat, hoping it would make her sound more human, more like the thing she wanted to be more than anything in the world, the thing of which she continually fell short.

"I know you were just trying to assist, dear," she said softly, pulling at a loose thread in her skirt, reminding her of herself as she pulled it taut, again and again, until it broke, "but next time, could you limit the amount of slaps to one?"

Neither of them made a sound for a second. Then the tension broke and Karen let out a burst of laughter, sharp and loud that filled the room; a sound that was both out of place and absolutely, vitally needed. Tears rolled down her cheeks as Karen doubled over and Martha, unable to resist the way Karen's face split open and poured out warmth when she laughed, felt the corners of her mouth turn up in response. They sat on the floor, the remnants of disgrace behind them, an uncertain and precarious future before them, and Martha marveled at the fact that they were still alive. They were still breathing. They could sit and laugh as they had always done. The world had been torn down around them but they had not ended with it; they'd begun anew. And anything could happen.

Martha was still marveling when she noticed the tenor of Karen's voice had switched. Instead of laughter, there were now sobs; tears of euphoria had become real tears, hot and scalding, on her friend's flushed face. Martha had achieved, as she had hoped, what needed to be done; she'd given Karen release from holding herself in, taut and restrained for what had seemed, for both of them, an eternity.

Martha willed her heart to be silent as she felt Karen's head against her shoulder, desperate for an anchor to tie her grief to. Slowly, deliberately, Martha put her arms around Karen's shoulders and pulled her in. She swallowed back the hitch in her breath as she felt Karen's face, damp and warm, settle against her chest, felt her arms at her waist and the ensuing tug, persistent and aching, at the deepest part of her. Neither of them spoke as the light in the room faded from pale yellow, to brilliant red, to indigo, and then finally black as the sun descended, the darkness bearing them ceaselessly toward a new and uncertain day.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I own nothing. These characters are my friends; borrowed, but not for me to keep.

Hello, readers! I am so sorry for the long hiatus. Life has been hectic but I'm back in the swing of things. Chapter 3 is over twice as long as the previous chapters so I hope that will do something to alleviate your frustration. As always, please leave me a review with your thoughts; your criticism, positive or otherwise, will be much appreciated! Enjoy!

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It was like dealing with a petulant child. After everything, after all they had been through and overcome, it was astonishing that this would be the straw that broke the camel's back.

Karen stood over Martha's hunched frame for the seventh time in almost as many days. They were in the living room, where Karen had walked in a half an hour prior to see Martha perched nervously on the edge of an armchair, twisting a handkerchief until it became a ball that disappeared between her shaking hands, before unfurling it and repeating the process. Over the years, Karen had become accustomed to several of Martha's nervous ticks; this one, which always preceded an intense and dramatic outburst, had never showed itself more times than in the week following the night in Martha's bedroom. Karen, who had gone unseen upon her entrance, had noted Martha's fumbling hands and felt the familiar sinking sensation in both heart and stomach. _Oh Martha, please. Not again. Not this again._ Her nerves, raw and worn, gave a preemptive shudder against what would be the latest beating in this endless and unceasing battle of wills, a battle that had started the morning after Martha's attempted suicide.

They had stayed in the same position for a long time that night, Karen's head against Martha's chest and their arms around each other. Eventually, the world had stopped spinning around her; the loss of Joe, Martha's confession, Amelia Tilford's visit, Martha's attempt, and finally, the confrontation with Mortar had been too much for her. Tears had come, hot and unbidden and fierce; a ball of emotion, so large and painful, had swelled in her throat that she was sure she would choke on it. Karen had felt, at the same time, the need to turn to Martha and the urge to get up and run until her legs were worn down to nothing beneath her. It was clear which urge won out and Karen, despite Martha's confession, despite the past few months, despite the implications of what she was doing, couldn't help but turn to Martha as she'd always done. Karen had felt, shamefully, that she could not have chosen a worse time to ask for comfort for herself; while she tried to be a rock for Martha, she found herself unable to be so at the exact moment Martha needed it most. She had felt helpless to stop, however; she could not stop her insides from being exposed, raw and aching, as she tried in vain to stop her tears, choking on her effort, wondering if this was what Martha had felt, if this was suffocating.

Karen had felt, with horrible clarity, what it was like to lose control of oneself.

So she had clutched on to Martha with everything left in her, which was not much. Karen felt as much as heard the hitch in Martha's breath when Karen touched her, but there was no turning back; the arms of her friend were much too comforting for her to give up. She tried to ignore the shame that rose in her, hot and relentless, at what Martha would surely interpret as Karen taking advantage of her. Karen knew Martha was in love with her. She knew it but in this moment she found herself completely unable to act as a friend should; if she had had the strength, Karen would never have dreamed of touching Martha in this way, in a way that would surely exacerbate her friend's shame of her preference. But she had proven she was utterly incapable of doing right by both of them. If she had not insisted on Martha coming away with her, perhaps Martha never would have felt the compulsion to end her own life. But Karen had not even been able to entertain the idea of a future without Martha there. She felt horribly, utterly selfish, but at this moment, while so many losses lay at her door, she could do nothing to stop it.

And so they stayed in the same position for what must have been hours. Karen took in the familiar, comforting citrus smell of Martha's perfume; she relished the heart beat that carried on steadily, every moment assuring her that Martha was alive and well beneath her head. The tears eventually stopped; the knot in her throat lessened, and Karen felt, for the first time in days, months even, the light slump of unburdened shoulders. Martha had that effect on her; even silent, she had the ability to lift Karen's troubles away just with her presence. It was a heady experience, a trait one found so rarely, and Karen could not help but relive Martha's attempt, over and over; she considered with abject horror how she would feel now if she had been too late.

Karen knew then she could never live without Martha. It was no longer a question; it was a certainty.

Karen had only let go when they heard Lily Mortar's muffled voice behind the door, telling them in tight, clipped tones that her train was leaving in half an hour and she would need a ride to the station. Karen had gotten up gingerly, wincing at the stiffness in her body borne from sitting in the same attitude for a long time. She opened the door a fraction, just enough to see the older woman's overly made-up face. "We'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes," she said shortly, closing the door again quickly lest she try to squeeze her way into the room. Karen then turned back to Martha, whose expression, even as the moonlight from the window shined directly on her face, was all but inscrutable. It unnerved her, how quiet Martha had been, how, aside for the brief moment in which she had cried, there was an unsettling lack of emotion. Karen felt a pang in her chest, deep and hard and painful; she wanted to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, she wanted to scream and yell and do anything she could to put some expression back on Martha's face. She'd put her neck in a noose and yet it was Karen who was falling apart, who could not hold her worn out seams together. Perhaps if Martha showed any emotion, any at all, it would have been enough for Karen to pull herself together and take care of Martha as she should; as it was now, she found herself struggling to do the job.

So she did what she could. She got Martha up and together, they went into the small bathroom off of Martha's bedroom and splashed cold water on their faces. Their hands and arms occasionally brushed against the other's in the dim light, touches that went unacknowledged but did nothing to alleviate the tension in the room. Karen wetted a hand towel with water as cold as the old faucet could muster and, lifting Martha's hair aside, wrapped it gently around the angry red mark at her neck. She winced slightly as Martha let out a gasp, then bit down on her lower lip as little tears formed at the corners of her blue eyes; Karen felt a tug, hard and persistent, pull at her heart as Martha braced herself against the sink, clearly in distress.

"Does it hurt?" Karen had asked softly, feeling silly as soon as it came out of her mouth. Of course it hurt. What was she thinking?

Martha mercifully chose to ignore the inanity of the question. "A little bit," she said quietly. She tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. Karen could have laughed at her bullheaded courage if it were not so deeply upsetting. Instead, she rubbed Martha's back gently; she wiped tears away with a handkerchief, touches she could only hope were comforting.

The ride to the station had been silent. Karen found herself looking in the rearview mirror at Martha more times than was necessarily safe. She couldn't help but fixate on the scarf Martha had surreptitiously tied around her neck while she stood at entrance to the farmhouse, a gesture that was not lost on Karen. She had felt the violent urge to rip it off as she watched the material close around Martha's throat. Such strong, forceful compulsions were completely new to Karen, who had had to pause for a moment on the way to the car to take a deep breath, feeling the overwhelming urge to be sick. The urge barely stayed at bay during their short trip to the station. As much as she tried to focus on other things, her eyes invariably strayed to that scarf. She could not help but wonder if this was what going crazy felt like; the violent urges and the nervous ticks and feeling sickened by the most insignificant things. At best, it was not a pleasant experience; at worst…Karen did not dare to consider.

At the station, Karen and Martha had stood next to each other in almost complete silence while Lily Mortar hemmed and hawed, nervously clasping and unclasping her handbag with a _snap_ that'd set Karen's teeth on edge. While they were waiting, Mortar spoke in nervous jerks, clearly uncomfortable with the silence that seemed to blanket the entire platform, even as others jostled them and called to one another, a pervasive silence that separated them from the outside world and singled them out as outsiders.

"Do you see what that woman is wearing?! A scandal! No woman should ever leave the house without looking her best. Look, her slip is showing! I tell you, _I _would never be caught dead in such a state of dress."

When it was clear neither of them were going to reply, she fell back into a reluctant silence. She returned to clasping and unclasping her handbag. Karen had a swift and violent vision of taking that handbag and beating her over the head with it. As it was, however, the last thing they needed was another headline in the paper that read "Alleged Homosexual Schoolteacher Beats Alleged Lover's Aunt in a Psychotic Rage" or something similar. So instead she stood primly, hoping the vision would be enough to satisfy the whim.

When the silence became too absolute again, Mortar heaved a sigh.

"Oh these conductors, it seems they are incapable of arriving anywhere on time. In my day, punctuality was a trait strictly adhered to, no matter your station in life…"

She was met with silence again. Karen had to admire her persistence, for surely there was little else to admire about her. She watched as Mortar began to nervously pace, taking in the faces and commotion around her with nervous and mistrustful eyes. Eventually, she slammed her handbag down on the trunk, dabbing at her dry eyes with a handkerchief.

"Such noise! Such clamor! Some people just do _not_ know proper decorum…"

"Oh, but enough about you, Aunt Lily," Martha had said quietly, so quietly that only Karen could hear her clearly. Lily Mortar gleaned enough by the tone of her voice and the look on Karen's face, however, and turned to look her niece in the eye for the first time upon leaving the farmhouse.

"You could do to learn a few manners yourself, Martha," she drew herself up with as much dignity as a woman wearing too much rouge could muster, fixing Martha with what she had surely hoped was an austere air, "it is a shameful fault that you should speak to your own flesh and blood in such a way. No young lady in my day would _ever_ have spoken to her elders in the way you speak to me-"

"Well, then, I suppose we must be grateful that we no longer live 'back in your day,'" Martha said, making her words cutting and hard in a way only Martha could. She paused as the sound of oiled wheels on tracks and the shaking floor of the platform signaled the arrival of a new train, "and it looks as though your chariot has arrived at last, so see if you can pull yourself together enough to make a dignified exit." She turned away from her aunt at last; Karen watched the barely concealed fury that showed itself in the clenching of Martha's teeth and the tears of anger forming in the corners of her eyes. Before she could stop it, Karen found herself reaching out and grasping one of her wrists, hoping it would steady her. Martha eyes moved around a bit before they met Karen's and they shared a look, the first since Karen had cut her down from the support beam hours before. The look of exasperation on her face was so endearingly _Martha_ that Karen felt the urge to cry. It was wonderfully familiar and completely alien; she'd seen it so many times from Martha before and yet it could have been from another lifetime, so much had happened. Karen didn't trust herself to say anything, not even to soothe her; she bestowed on Martha a watery smile, gave her wrist another reassuring squeeze, and stayed silent.

They stood together in solidarity through the necessary departure scene. Karen stiffly reciprocated the half-hearted hand pat Lily Mortar bestowed upon her, wishing her the best of luck in the most curt and succinct terms she could pull together. She watched as Mortar bestowed upon Martha what she'd probably hoped would be a heartfelt and warm embrace, but could not have been colder or more awkward if she'd tried; it was no surprise to Karen when Martha failed to return it. Lily Mortar then left them with departing words of an insignificant and thoroughly disingenuous nature, words that left the both of them feeling hard and unmoved as they watched her turn away from them for the last time, the emptiness of her departure a testament to the hollow and dampening effect Martha's aunt had had on their lives. They said nothing, they felt nothing as the train chugged away, slowly at first, then gaining speed before it turned around a bend and disappeared from sight.

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur, the both of them so exhausted that it seemed they were going through the necessary motions while already half asleep. Karen remembered that night in an array of hazy images; helping Martha out of her coat in the foyer of the farmhouse; gently forcing Martha to eat some of the dinner she'd prepared hours before without eating any of it herself; setting up a cot in her bedroom so the both of them could sleep in the same room together. All of this was done in an effort, Karen believed, to make sure Martha wasn't alone at any time. She carefully ignored the tiny, wrathful voice in the back of her head that honed in on the hard, persistent truth: that she wasn't ready to face more than one moment by herself. That she was afraid to be alone. That she was afraid her thoughts, wild and unrestrained, would rise up in the silence, pervasive and painful, and slowly drown her.

She had been afraid that Martha would try to resist her attentions, but Martha had been surprisingly amenable to everything Karen suggested. She ate her dinner in silence; she agreed to sleep in Karen's room for the night and did not fight when Karen insisted she take the bed while Karen took the cot; she went through the motions with an emptiness that was, frankly, terrifying. Karen could take the anger and the sadness and the anguish; in fact, she welcomed them. It would start the conversation they absolutely, vitally needed to have but which Karen did not have the strength nor the courage to start herself. She could handle tears; she could handle screaming and crying because it would mean they could move forward, that they were not locked in the nightmare of tension and repression that'd been their reality for the past few months. But she could not handle this determined silence.

Karen had laid awake for a long time that night, despite her exhaustion. She'd listened to Martha's breathing for hours in an attempt to distract herself from her disjointed and poisonous thoughts, thoughts that covered her body in sweat and left her trembling with distress. Martha's breaths were raspy and short and, every once in a while, Karen heard her struggle to catch her breath. These moments terrified Karen; she was afraid the day had been too much to handle and Martha's heart was giving out. She waited with bated breath during these moments and felt the urge to cry every time Martha recovered. Karen could not help but wonder who was really the sick and dirty of the two; Martha for loving her, or Karen for being grateful for it, for knowing that the years Martha spent biding in pain only bound Martha more closely to her. She loved Martha more dearly than anything, that was absolutely true, more so than she had Joe, but she could not help but feel this was no an act of love; this was Karen's fear of having no one that had her listening in terror to her friend's labored and painful breathing throughout the night.

Eventually, Martha's breaths lengthened and came less often, signaling to Karen that she had finally fallen asleep. Wiping her face with the back of her hands, Karen pushed back the covers and stood up, gently tiptoeing across the room, taking care not to let the old hardwood floor creak as she made her way to the side of the bed where Martha lay sleeping.

A beam of moonlight had fallen over Martha's face, down over her breast and ending on her left hand. The light bleached her skin, making it appear fairer than it already was. Karen studied the delicate blue veins that ran across the back of her hand. She took in the pale blue nightgown, watched the gentle rise and fall of it every time Martha took a breath. She watched the pulse at her neck, faint but discernible as it beat a gentle rhythm under her fair skin. She took in the red mark around her neck that had lightened to pink under the moonlight. And finally, Karen took in Martha's face. She studied it as if she had never quite seen it clearly before: the shock of pale skin under her red hair, the gentle slope of her small nose, the pink swell of her beautifully formed lips, the cheeks that bore tracks of moisture, looking almost silver in the moonlight. She had cried before falling asleep and Karen could not fight the compulsion that suddenly rose in her, warm and overwhelming; she bent down and kissed the crown of her head, feeling with aching relief Martha's warm skin and the familiar smell of her bronze hair. Karen could not stop the tears that came to the surface, unbidden and fierce, as she took in the sight of her best friend, who seemed so delicate, so _helpless_ in her pale blue nightgown. What Karen wouldn't have given to crawl into bed with her and shield her from the unforgiving and cruel world that had given birth to Martha's hatred of herself. What Karen wouldn't have given to go back in time and walk away the first time she'd ever laid eyes on Martha Dobie, so she could have saved her from the years of heartache and shame and self-loathing that were now as much a part of her person as the beautiful red hair on the top of her head.

What Karen wouldn't have given, in that moment, to give Martha her life back, the life Karen had stolen from her the moment Martha had set eyes on her and began to harbor those feelings, unnatural or otherwise, that would eventually rise up to consume her.

Karen had no idea how long she spent by the bedside, watching Martha sleep. After eventually forcing herself to return to her cot, she vowed to devote herself to Martha's happiness. She would do everything she could to form their lives in a way that they might live, truly _live_, without fear of shame or judgment. She would take the destruction of their lives and use the rubble to build something even more beautiful than what had been there before it. She would take back what was rightfully theirs but had been taken away the moment little Mary Tilford had opened her mouth and poured out those simpering, honeyed words of deceit: _she would take their lives back._

It was with these thoughts, full of hot, righteous vindication, that Karen eventually fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next morning, she woke with a start. The empty room said _secure_, but her heart rate and heavy breathing spoke of some unknown danger that had her looking around the room wildly as if some beast had yet to show itself from under the bed or behind the bureau. It took a minute for Karen to shake off the post-sleep haze that clung to her mind like a web, still vividly laced with the vestiges of fear and anguish from the events of the day before. It took her another minute to understand that her terror was not of there being something extra in the room, but what the room itself was missing.

Martha was not in her bed.

Karen jumped to her feet, bile in her throat. She wouldn't of. Martha wouldn't have _dreamed_ of…

She didn't allow herself to finish the thought. She crossed the room and tore the door open, her heart beating a rhythm of terror in her chest as she crossed the foyer; she felt a terrifying sense of déjà vu as she climbed the steps three at a time and barreled into Martha's room with the force of a stampeding rhino.

Empty.

But Karen was not relieved. She ran from one room to the next, searching through the refuse of broken toys and worn textbooks and half-filled notebooks for a sign of Martha, filled with terror at the disturbing silence that had settled over the house apart from her own footsteps. It didn't mean anything. It was a large house and Martha was not a loud person to begin with…

After searching every room in the upstairs and coming up empty, Karen ran back downstairs and started the same process. Relief came over her with a force so strong she could hardly draw breath when she opened the door to the living room and finally spotted Martha, already dressed and very much alive, sitting in the armchair with a handkerchief in her hands. "Oh, darling!" she gasped. Her heartbeat moments prior was nothing in comparison with the tattoo it beat now as she crossed the threshold, kneeled down in front of Martha and clasped her warm hands in her own, noting with a satisfaction almost painful in nature the tiny, subtle pulse in her left wrist.

"Good morning, Karen." Her smile, though small, seemed genuine; Karen could not help but smile back, taking in Martha's beautiful blue eyes and feeling tears prick at the corners of her own. Martha looked tired; there were bags under her eyes and her skin was a little paler than usual, but otherwise she looked fine. She watched as Martha took in her shortness of breath, the dampness of her skin and the flush she felt in her cheeks with a questioning look. Karen, hoping to hide her terrible moment of weakness, tried to put the matter aside with a shake of her head. "It's nothing. I just…I couldn't find…" she stopped short, unwilling to formulate the ugly thoughts that had raced through her head in her search of the house. Karen clasped Martha's hands tighter, patted the back of one with one of her own. "It's…" she sighed, still struggling to catch her breath, "I'm glad to see you."

Karen knew she wasn't fooled. Martha squeezed back; she knew exactly what Karen had been thinking. "And I'm glad to see you," she said quietly. She pulled her hands out from between Karen's then, returning to manipulating the handkerchief as she'd been doing when Karen had come in. "Why don't you sit down? You look tired. Take a moment to catch your breath."

Karen obliged. Now that she was assured of Martha's continued existence, little else mattered. She sat and watched as Martha twisted the handkerchief until it became a ball and disappeared between her hands, before unfurling it and repeating the process. It took her a minute to understand what this meant, this nervous tick that she didn't see often but she was still well familiar with: Martha had something on her mind. It was a sign that the staid silence that Martha had stubbornly clung to the night before was now over. Karen expected to feel grateful, relieved, even; she'd known there were many things they both needed to say, conversations they needed to have, but whatever conversation lie ahead was not going to be a pleasant one. The night before, she had felt ready for it. Now, as she took in Martha's fumbling hands, she realized the only thing she'd actually wanted was to fill the silence. Karen felt the beginnings of queasiness in her stomach. _She was not ready_.

She was distracted from her own inner musings when Martha took a deep breath. "Karen," she said, quietly, timidly. She cleared her throat, took another breath. "I know you're expecting some sort of…explanation…for what happened last night." She paused again. Karen felt the faint queasiness intensify. She was not ready in the slightest. "I cannot…_begin_…to explain the nature of what was going through my head last night. I doubt I'll ever wish to. But it's necessary, I believe, for me to be honest with you about my wishes, which might give you some idea of what I'm thinking. I want you to understand that I only want what's best for you. It's all I've wanted all along. And no matter my sins…" Martha's voice wavered for a moment, but she pushed through it. "I would want the same for you whether the circumstances were different or not." She took another deep breath. Karen found herself digging into the wooden arms of the rocking chair, her fingers aching but unable to let go as she braced herself for what Martha was going to say next.

"I can't come away with you," Martha burst out, as if she'd been holding the words back and now they had finally broken free of their cage, "I've been thinking about it ever since you asked me yesterday. It's not possible. It's just not possible. I know Mrs. Tilford is going to set the record straight, but we're kidding ourselves if we believe we're ever going to be able to move somewhere together without whispers following our backs. And…and after what I told you…" She buried her face in her hands, attempting to hold back the sob that came anyway, fierce and anguished, "I cannot subject you to it, Karen. I can't. It will be too much for you this way. To know that everywhere you go, scandal will follow you because I'll be there. And…with you knowing how I feel about you…I can't ask you to do this. I don't want you to bind yourself to me because you believe you owe me something. You mustn't let duty and obligation stand in the way of a free and happy life." Karen felt her throat go dry. That was it. That was why she'd done it. _That was why Martha had done it_. She had thought she was setting Karen free. _Oh, God_. She felt the bile rise up in her throat. "You have been a dear friend to me. We'll miss each other but it's best this way. You can go your way and I, mine. You can start anew. You can go back to Joe and the two of you can start again. You can have a wonderful life and forget this ever happened."

Karen stared at her. She felt her throat start to close in on itself. This was not happening. Surely, this was not happened. Surely Martha wasn't pushing her away. After everything they had been through, after everything they had overcome together…

She felt sick. She could not imagine a future without Martha. She _couldn't_. No matter Martha's preference for her, it was absolutely unthinkable at this juncture that they should separate. To think of what Martha had done, to understand that _Karen had been the reason she had attempted suicide…_it was almost too much to take. She had assumed she was partly the reason Martha had done it, but to have it confirmed was like the pain to end all other pain. Karen tried to think clearly, tried to push past the oncoming panic that rose within her as Martha's words _"I can't come away with you!"_ repeated themselves, over and over in her head. She had to say something. Karen had to _do_ something.

She pried her aching fingers away from the arms of the rocking chair, clasping her hands together and settling them in her lap. She leaned forward, slowly, in a gesture that she hoped appeared calm, because it could not have been any more different than the abject panic settling in her heart.

Karen took a deep breath before she spoke. "You are suggesting we separate."

Martha, who had not managed to look up from her lap during her whole speech, pulled at a fraying thread in her skirt, silent tears streaking down her pale face. "Yes. I think it would be best."

Karen hesitated. "I see," she said quietly. She looked away and back again, not that it mattered; Martha was still determinedly avoiding her gaze. "And how do you suggest we keep in touch? Letters? A phone call once or twice a month perhaps?"

Karen watched Martha's throat convulse slightly as she swallowed. "I suppose-"

"You suppose," Karen interrupted her. As much as she tried to fight it, she felt anger, hot and churning, rise up from the pit of her stomach. It was not enough, was it, that Karen had to have her fiancé leave her and her best friend attempt suicide in the same day. It was not enough that Karen had stayed up for hours after tending to Martha's needs simply so she could watch her. It was not enough that she had stayed up for hours worrying over Martha and trying to swallow her own panic and fear so that she could take care of Martha they way she deserved. It was not enough that her heart had been squeezed and pulled and pulverized to oblivion over the last twenty four hours. Martha was back to do it again!

"Martha," her voice was low, grating; it did not sound like her and Karen watched herself stand up as if she were a stranger, as if some other force drove her forward as she clenched her hands and felt her nails cut deep into her flesh, "let me be frank with you. The last twenty four hours have been hell for me. Joe has left me. You have confessed your love and I have been forced to consider how long you have bided in pain, how many times I have blindly hurt you over _ten years_ of friendship. I have had to hold a conversation with the woman that has completely and utterly destroyed our lives. I have had to break a door down and cut open the noose that held my best friend's throat in its grasp. I have had to get rid of your aunt and I have had to pull myself together to take care of you while all the while pushing aside my own terror at what has happened to us!" Karen was shouting now; she could not hold back as she felt her panic spill over into words that hurled themselves like knives, blade-first, at her friend. "My only consolation has been the fact that you are still alive and that you are here with me. You are my best friend-" she choked; Martha's face crumpled in response and she saw her face redden, watched the tears spill out faster than before, "you have been my chief solace, the one good thing in my life since all of this has happened. And now you want to leave. You want us to go our separate ways and you say we will _call_ and we will _write – _as if that is an acceptable substitute for what we have now!" Karen gestured wildly between them. "Well, I will tell you something, Martha. It is not out of _duty_, it is not out of _obligation_ that I refuse to part from you. It is because I love you and I want you in my life." Karen felt her face grow hot; before she could help it, she felt tears, hot and thick and unbidden, roll down her cheeks. She turned away, knowing that if Martha met her gaze now, she would be undone; she would not be able to say what she needed to say. "When we leave, it will be together. Wherever one goes, so will go the other. No matter the complications. No matter the whispers. Because I would rather be alone with you for the rest of my life than have a city full of confidantes, and not one of them you."

Silence pervaded the air after her pronouncement. Karen felt herself begin to unravel with a horrible sense of déjà vu, and she tried to swallow down the guilt and regret that rose, pervasive and inescapable, at having spoken to Martha in such a way. She had said what needed to be said. There could be no more talk of them separating. Karen could not handle it; one more word on the subject from Martha and Karen would be lost. There would be no coming back.

Martha was crying. As much as she tried to cut herself off from the sound of it, Karen heard, with a terrible clarity, the shortness of breath and the little huffs and the small sobs of anguish that came from Martha's mouth even as she clamped her hands desperately over her mouth to muffle the sound. And she couldn't help it. She went to her; she kneeled down and gathered Martha in her arms, resting her chin on the top of Martha's head. She stroked her hair away from her damp face and felt her heart sink every time one of Martha's sobs shook her. "Shhh, darling," she said quietly. And then her own tears came, and she could not help but wonder if there would ever be an end to this. It was hard to consider what their lives had become and even harder to imagine anything could ever become right again. The years they had spent, contented and secure, could have belonged to another lifetime; it might never have been their lives at all because Karen could not even recall what it was like to not be frightened of what the next moment might bring. They'd lived their lives in terror for so long it seemed impossible they would ever recover.

But she could not help but feel grateful as she held Martha in her arms. She had one thing in her life that was good. She had one thing in her life to be thankful for. And she could cling to that as she would cling to a solitary rock in the middle of a deep and endless ocean, in order to survive.

Karen had thought that conversation would be the end of it. Martha hadn't said a word about separating for the rest of the day, and Karen had been content to believe that her wishes had been heard.

But it had happened again the next day. And the next. Then Karen had had a day off before Martha came at her again, every time with new reasons, every time with a firm resolve that clung to her like flesh to bone. And every time they had a conversation, Karen felt herself losing control, little by little; she felt her nerves being pushed to the breaking point and Martha would always give in at the last moment, right before Karen snapped. But Karen could feel herself growing weaker, becoming thinner, with every unresolved confrontation. It had come to the point where, after the last confrontation, she had locked herself in her room and wailed for what must have been hours. Her anguish renewed itself every moment and the tears had seemed endless; she had only stopped when her body had become literally too exhausted to continue. Then, and only then had she unlocked the door and let a nearly hysterical Martha into the room. Martha had apologized, over and over again, through hot and thick tears as she smoothed Karen's hair back, gently wiping her swollen face with a cool washcloth. "I won't do it again, dear," Karen watched the little tears that stood out on Martha's eyelashes as the latter bent over and kissed the crown of her head. She felt as much as heard the hitch in Martha's breath when she did and Karen could not help but consider, for the umpteenth time, who really was the crueler of the two: Martha for wanting to leave her or Karen not wanting to be left. She had not been able to summon more tears, but the painful squeezing of her heart had hurt enough.

Martha had stuck to her resolve for a record of two days after the incident. But on the third day she had come, once again, to break Karen's heart. _Oh, Martha, please. Not again. Not this again._

Once again, they circled through the same arguments, without coming to a solution.

"But Karen, you know, you _know_ you will _never_ have a happy life if I'm with you!"

"Martha, I do not need the approval of the world to be happy!"

"Oh, don't toy with me, Karen. You have been miserable the past few months with this scandal hanging over us. I have watched you suffer day after day and now you expect me to believe that you can become happy under the same circumstances?!"

"But these are _not_ the same circumstances, Martha! The record has been set straight. The world knows now that we are not lovers, that the whole story was a fabrication. The eyes of judgment have been passed from us and now we have the freedom to-"

"The freedom to what? To move to a different city together and not have suspicion cast over us? You're kidding yourself if you believe we could _ever_ go away together and not cause others to suspect-"

"_Then let them suspect!_"

Around and around they went, through the same words and the same arguments, only in different order, when Karen began to feel it. She had become unraveled, bit by bit, thread by thread, until all that was left now was a hard, persistent truth that she would loose like an arrow at Martha's heart.


End file.
